


Ninety Nine Pence

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cambridge, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Teenlock, Unilock, University, cuteness, nothing major, proposal, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:51:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10108562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: ‘Oh look, it’s my robber.’





	1. Blood and Guts: A Short History of Medicine.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and leave kudos :)

All he wanted was a book.

Not just any book- he wanted _Blood and Guts: A Short History of Medicine._ In fact, ‘wanted’ was not the right word. John _needed_ that book, or he was fucked, and he didn’t care that it was pouring with rain, he didn’t care that he was soaking and sniffling, he just cared about _the fucking book._

100% fucked.

He was in Cambridge for his second year as part of the University’s ‘scientific exchange’, a brand-new programme aimed at giving science students at Unis of a ‘lower standing’ to Cambridge a chance to participate in the ‘Cambridge experience’. John had been picked (he hadn’t even applied, they’d literally just told him to go) and basically told ‘go or leave’.

John chose go.

On the whole, Cambridge as a city wasn’t that bad. It was beautiful: the architecture was amazing, the (regular) people seemed nice, there were coffee shops around every corner and the entire place had an aura of peaceful calm. Even the grounds of actual Uni were beautiful- some of the buildings had been standing for over six hundred years, and the courtyards and walkways were amazing. As a bit of a nature geek, John loved it.

And then there were the students.

John shuddered and pushed his way into the fourth bookshop in an hour. He hadn’t had time to read the sign, he didn’t even know where he was anymore, and as he crossed the threshold the first thing he noticed was the smell.

God, it smelt like Sunday mornings snuggled in the duvet. It smelt like a warm bath in the winter. It smelt like his mum’s baking at Christmas- it smelt _amazing._

‘Do not worry,’ came a deep, posh voice from behind the counter. ‘You have entered a bookshop. Not a coffee shop. Though we do sell coffee.’

John pulled down his hood and looked around: there was no one in sight, save for a small woman wearing headphones by the bookshelves and an old man reading and sipping a cup of steaming coffee. John looked at the man, and then at the empty counter: was he _hallucinating?_ It had been a long few weeks, the Cambridge lot went a lot quicker than he did…Jesus Christ, this was just what he needed-

‘I’m over here, idiot.’ John approached the counter timidly, before leaning over and looking down. ‘Hullo?’

A mass of black curls shook, before a long, pale face looked up. ‘You found me. Took you long enough.’ He dropped his book and jumped to his feet with an agility that took John by surprise. ‘What do you want?’

Somewhere out back, someone yelled, ‘SHERLOCK!’

The boy (slash man- he couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen, but he had an air of someone superior) rolled his eyes. ‘SORRY! I meant, how can I help you?’

John blinked. ‘Is your name Sherlock?’

The boy looked at him in despair. ‘Yes. Your name is irrelevant. Now we are acquainted, how can I help?’

‘How did you-‘

‘I’m not in the mood.’ Sherlock stepped back, fixing John with a pale-blue stare so intense John felt himself blush. ‘Um, I need-‘

‘Furthest shelf to the left, third row up, far left.’ Sherlock shot John a quick, insincere smile, and dropped back to the floor, hidden from view.

John huffed- the boy _clearly_ went to Cambridge, he was even more arrogant than the others. ‘But I didn’t even tell you-‘

‘Go look, idiot.’

John turned on his heel, stomped to the shelf, and sat on his haunches to inspect the third shelf. ‘Fucking twatty little arrogant _pricks,’_ he muttered as he scanned the shelf. ‘Think they own the whole _fucking_ world-‘

That was when he saw _Blood and Guts: A Short History of Medicine_ by Roy Porter, on the far left of the third row on the furthest shelf.

His angry muttering stopped abruptly.

John stood there, brain racing, as he tried to work out what was going on. Was he dreaming? Was he part of a new reality TV show? Was this a really fucking elaborate joke by the Cambridge twats?

‘That’ll be seven pounds ninety nine pence.’ The voice interrupted John’s thoughts, making him jump, and he went over to the counter. A large hand, with incredibly long fingers, shot up and waggled impatiently. ‘Seven ninety nine. Come on.’

John stared at the hand in amazement. ‘Can I pay with card?’

‘Do you go to Cambridge?’ John could almost hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice, and he bit his lip. ‘What do you fucking think.’

‘ _Shhh._ ’ The old man pressed a finger to his lips aggressively, and John raised an eyebrow at the quick laugh from behind the counter. ‘Cash if you’re not a student, teacher or Fellow.’

John dropped seven pounds into Sherlock’s hand and then left the bookshop as quickly as he could, smirking as he walked down the street.

 _That’ll show him,_ he thought proudly, clutching his copy of _Blood and Guts: A Short History of Medicine_ tightly _. Fucking prick._

*

A month later, John was settling in a little better. He’d found a group of slightly less twattish students at the College he was lodging in, and formed a close friendship with Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper, the two other Bart’s students participating in the programme. Mike was also doing medicine, Molly was doing forensic pathology, and they were both alright. Molly was a lot cleverer, but a lot shyer, so they complimented each other.

He was starting to find his footing in the lectures, probably because a couple of the kids there were actually talking to him, and he was actually starting to regret the fuss he had made at the start. It was a really good opportunity, and he’d wasted almost a month of it moaning.

He wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

He was wandering down a normal street that looked vaguely familiar, though he wasn’t really sure why, chatting on his mobile to Mary, a girl in one of his lectures, when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shop.

‘I’ll call you back,’ John said quickly, and hung up before approaching the shop.

He’d been thinking about the ninety nine pence he owed to the shop for a while, and now that he’d re-found it he _finally_ had a chance to pay the money he owed. John Watson was many things, but he was not a thief, and he wanted to continue not being a thief.

Taking a deep breath, John entered the shop.

Probably because of the nice weather, it was busier than it had been before. Students were browsing, a couple of teachers sat in the window eating pieces of amazing looking cake, there was even a curly, black dog sitting under a table occupied by a pretty girl reading Poe. John absent-mindedly bent down to stroke it, looking around and inhaling deeply (the smell was just as mouth-watering)-

‘Oh look, it’s my robber.’

John stood up so quickly he trod on the dog’s tail: the dog yelped, fixed John with an injured look, and then settled back down. The pretty girl with the dog glared at John mutinously before turning away.

Sherlock, who was standing next to a tall boy with floppy brown hair and an arrogant smile and leaning against the counter, grinned. ‘Robber _and_ animal abuser. We’re building quite the case against you…’ He paused, waiting for John to say his name, and he eventually cottoned on. ‘John. Watson. John Watson.’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘And now I have a name. Tell me, John, do you _think_ before you speak?’

The brown haired boy laughed, before slipping his arm around Sherlock’s waist and drawing him towards him. ‘I’ve got to go, babe,’ he whispered, and Sherlock nodded. ‘Understandable.’

John looked away, not really sure what he was meant to be doing. The brown haired boy smirked, before pulling Sherlock up to his own height and kissing him aggressively (John was pretty sure he saw both of their tongues and threw up in his mouth a bit) before releasing him, winking at John, and leaving.

The moment the door was closed, the pretty girl said loudly, ‘Your boyfriend is a prick.’

Sherlock smiled lazily. ‘Jealous, Irene?’

Irene smiled right back, eyes narrowed. ‘I think not. Have you _seen_ my latest conquest?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘All I know is that she has you whipped so hard you’re babysitting her _dog._ And Victor is _not_ my boyfriend, he just gets a bit…possessive.’

At this point John cleared his throat loudly, and said loudly, ‘Sherlock. I came to pay off my debt.’ He placed the money in Sherlock’s hand and smiled awkwardly.

Sherlock’s mouth opened slightly. ‘You remember my name?’

John’s mouth when suddenly dry. ‘What? No. Of course not. She just said it-‘

‘I didn’t,’ Irene said, smile growing.

‘Oh.’ John could feel himself going red (why the _fuck_ had he remembered his name anyway?). ‘The other boy said it.’

‘He didn’t,’ Sherlock replied, his mouth breaking into an oddly realistic smile. He surveyed John for a brief period of time, just long enough for John to get incredibly uncomfortable, and then smiled. ‘You owe me ninety nine pence. And also coffee.’

John’s eyes widened. ‘Coffee?’

‘I didn’t turn you over,’ Sherlock said seriously. ‘You at least owe me that. You seem vaguely intriguing.’

John tried to ignore the flicker in his chest and looked at the cake. Ordinarily he would tell Sherlock to fuck off, but the other boy seemed…well. Intriguing.

They sat by the window, and Sherlock made John a cup of coffee and brought a piece of chocolate cake, which he _said_ was John’s but turned out to be both of theirs. Despite previous first impressions, Sherlock wasn’t the utter cock John had previously thought, and he was actually quite easy to talk to. Not that he wanted to talk much.

‘…and that brought me here.’ John had told Sherlock what seemed like the entire transcript of the last year of his life, and his throat hard and prickly as he took another drink of (cold) coffee. ‘Wow. I haven’t spoken that much in years.’

Sherlock cocked his head. ‘Why is that, John Watson?’

John laughed and crossed his legs. ‘Nah. Nah, we’re not doing that again. I want you to tell me something about _you_.’

‘Not going to happen.’

John smiled: he’d always loved a challenge. ‘Then let’s play a game.’

Sherlock looked interested. ‘Hmm?’

‘We each ask three questions, you can skip one. Or answer them all. Your choice.’ John wondered suddenly if Sherlock was going to laugh at him and tell him he was immature or stupid, but he needn’t have worried: Sherlock, having pondered the suggestion, nodded. ‘I’ll go first. Where’s your father, who is the girl who’s been texting you nonstop, and why did you give up on the army?’

John had almost gotten used to Sherlock’s rapid deductions (‘I do not see,’ he had said when the conversation took a minute turn into Sherlock, ‘I observe.’) but not quite- he failed to hide the surprise on his face. ‘Woah.’

‘Answer,’ Sherlock grinned.

‘Prison, Mary Morstan, skip.’ John sat back. ‘What are you studying? Where is your family? Who was that boy?’

‘Chemistry, Surrey, Victor. You already knew that.’

‘How do you know him?’ The words were out of John’s mouth before he could stop them, and Sherlock’s smile widened. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would say you were jealous, John Watson.’

‘Not gay,’ John blustered, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘Right. Well, Victor is a friend. We have this thing where we fuck and he gives me information on heroin.’ On John’s expression, he frowned. ‘Not for me. Well. Not anymore.’

‘What do you mean?’ John asked softly, and Sherlock twisted his upper lip before standing abruptly. ‘It’s way past closing, you should’ve left a long time ago.’ The sun had set, not that John had noticed, and he stood up as well, looking at Sherlock with concern. ‘Are you ok-‘

‘Fine,’ Sherlock snapped. He picked up John’s coat, which had fallen on the floor, paused for a moment and then threw it at him. ‘I must lock up.’

‘Alright.’ John shrugged on his coat and crossed the doorstep, standing just outside the shop. ‘Sherlock-‘

Sherlock slammed the door, and John was left staring at the younger boy through the glass, watching him lean against the counter and slam his head against the hard wood, before he left.

It was as he walked home, a million thoughts rushing through his head, that he absentmindedly put his hands in his pockets and felt a fifty pence piece, two twenties, a five and two twos and smiled.

*

It took less than a week for Sherlock to find him.

John was sitting on his secluded bench, by the duck pond by his College, deep in thought. Sherlock had been on his mind more than he had liked, and he was a little surprised that the boy hadn’t come and found him before. Sherlock had planted the money, surely that meant he wanted to see John again, but he hadn’t come looking and John was starting to wonder if maybe he’d just forgotten to give it to Sherlock. Had he? He couldn’t even remember anymore.

John groaned and flicked his head back. ‘I can’t get mixed up with this,’ he murmured to himself. He didn’t know why he cared so much, he barely knew the boy, and he _wasn’t gay-_

‘Bi.’

John whipped around, heart racing, until he laid eyes on the tall, dark haired boy in a long, dark coat. ‘Jesus _Christ-‘_

Sherlock sat down next to John, who tried to look unaffected. ‘Not gay. Bi.’

John didn’t say anything. Sherlock sighed. ‘I came to apologise. You must understand, I don’t- I don’t do this sort of thing. Communication with new people, talking about my life, what I’ve done.’

John stayed silent.

‘But,’ Sherlock continued, ‘For some reason, I keep finding ways to make you stay around here, so I have come to explain. And apologise. Probably explain first.’

John finally looked at him, very briefly, before looking back at the pond. Sherlock took the look as a prompt to start.

‘I was born on the nineteenth of July, 1998.’ John looked up, confused. ‘Yes, that makes me just eighteen years old, but I’m in my third year. I am the second son of ordinary people, I grew up in a cottage in Surrey, I have an older brother who’s an utter prick. Victor lived next door to me then…’ he frowned. ‘There was an incident. He nearly died, but not- not quite. I don’t remember very well. I was bullied at school, I had no friends (Victor was in the year above) but I was smart. Really smart. At secondary school, I became friends with another...’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘Another _smart_ person. His name is James- actually, his name isn’t important, what’s important is I helped him do some very bad things and became addicted to heroin- and cocaine, I suppose- while I was doing that. When I was fourteen, my brother put me in rehab: I started self-harming, I became depressed, without the drugs everything seemed…’ he waved his hands. ‘Bigger. Louder. Scarier. I met Irene there, you met her last week, she was in there for alcohol problems.’ Upon seeing John’s shocked lock, he laughed. ‘I know, you would never have guessed. Irene helped me get over those problems, but I was in rehab for over a year. I’d been accepted into Oxford before I went into rehab, but I wanted a change in scenery, so I applied to Corpus Christi College, and the rest is history.’

John just stared at him, stared at this broken boy, and this broken boy stared back, eyes wide and bottom lip trembling as he begged John to accept him, and begged John to forgive him.

And John did just that.

‘I forgive you.’ He tilted his head as Sherlock visibly sagged with relief. ‘Am I the first person you’ve told that entire story to?’

Sherlock nodded silently, and John put a hand over Sherlock’s hand, resting on his knee. ‘I get it.’

Sherlock twisted his hand, so their fingers were interlinked.

They sat in silence, staring over the duck pond, hands interlinked, and John decided to ignore whatever he was getting mixed up with, and just go with the flow.

*

‘Ahem.’ Sherlock rocked back on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘John.’

‘Sherlock,’ John said calmly. His bags were packed, resting against the wall outside his room, and he was already wearing his jacket. ‘You have something to say.’

‘Why would you think that?’ Sherlock cracked all ten of his knuckles simultaneously, and John winced. ‘Sorry. But can I not just come and see of my…my John, without being accused of an ulterior motive?’

John looked at him sceptically. Sherlock huffed. ‘You’re going back to London, John, not fucking Australia. We’ll see each other.’ He paused. ‘Right?’

John pursed his lips. ‘Well. I dunno, we’ll both be busy. You have the shop, I have the eight years of Uni…’

‘Fuck.’ Sherlock never swore, and John was becoming slightly concerned. ‘Sherlock, c’mon.’

Sherlock squared his shoulders. ‘You’re right. I need- I need to do this.’ He sighed. ‘John. We’ve known each other a fair few months.’

‘Yes…’ John put down his other bag: he felt like they might be there for a bit of time.

‘We’ve spent a lot of time together. I’ve told you my backstory. You’ve told me yours.’

‘I have…’

Sherlock ruffled his curls. ‘My God, this is atrocious.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. Continuing. We have the same friends-‘

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ John interrupted, leaning against his door frame. ‘Irene’s alright, but Victor hates me. Molly’s in love with you-‘

‘Mike likes me.’

John nodded in acknowledgment. ‘Yeah, Mike does like you.’

Sherlock nodded, as if his point had been proven. ‘We’ve hung out a lot. We hold hands a lot.’ He blushed. ‘We kiss quite a lot. We do…other things.’

John couldn’t resist a smile at that. He loved Sherlock’s face when he got embarrassed: porcelain skin became bright red, his ears went pink at the tips, and he looked more like a normal person than he usually did. Not that John loved non-embarrassed Sherlock, because Christ, he did. ‘Yeah. D’you not like that?’

‘No, no, no!’ Sherlock interceded hastily. ‘I mean, yes. I like it. A lot.’ As if to prove his point, he kissed John briefly on the lips, tugging on his bottom lip just the way John liked. ‘See?’

‘Sherlock, it’s boiling hot in here. What do you want to say?’ For June, the weather was oddly warm, and John was sweating in his jacket.

Sherlock was sweating even more, despite his thin shirt with the sleeves rolled up. ‘Oh- yeah. Ok. We have fun together, right?’

‘Right.’

‘You like me?’

‘I more than like you, Sherlock.’

‘You like spending large amounts of time with me, and would not be adverse to cohabiting with me?’

John’s mouth fell open. ‘Sherlock, you’ve lost me.’

Sherlock bit his lip.

And then, in a gesture as old as time and yet absolutely brand new, all at the same time, Sherlock dropped to one knee.

John’s heart stopped.

‘I- I don’t have a ring,’ Sherlock mumbled, ‘But I do have this.’

Out of his back pocket, he withdrew John’s faded (and much annotated) copy of _Blood and Guts: A Short History of Medicine._

Inexplicable tears welled in John’s eyes.

‘I never told you how I knew it was what you wanted,’ Sherlock said quietly. All his nerves were gone, he was just staring up at John, eyes vulnerable and unguarded for possibly the first time ever. ‘But it doesn’t matter, because I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I don’t know what brought you to my bookshop that day but I’m so, so glad it did, and the ninety nine pence that you owe me is more precious than all of the money, all of the jewels, all of the knowledge in the world.’ He looked up. ‘John Watson, will you marry me?’

John let out a laugh, a half-overjoyed half-bewildered laugh. ‘Sherlock, we’re not even officially dating. What happened to ‘I don’t like labels’?’

Sherlock waved a hand. ‘Technicalities. We have been more than friends for almost a year, and I will never want anyone the way I want you.’

John closed his eyes. ‘You’re only doing this so you have an excuse for me to stay here, don’t you.’ When he opened them, Sherlock was grinning sheepishly. ‘I already pulled some strings: you’ve been accepted into Corpus Christi for the entire length of your degree. They can’t separate fiancés.’

John pulled Sherlock up, taking his face between his hands. ‘Fiancé. I like the sound of that.’

Sherlock’s face broke out into a breath-taking smile, lighting up his eyes and crinkling his nose. ‘So that’s…’

‘I’d marry you whatever you’d said, you stupid sod,’ John whispered, and then they were kissing, Sherlock’s lips fitting perfectly around his, side by side, touching all over, together forever.

And all, John thought as he traced Sherlock’s cheek with his hand, because of ninety nine pence.

 

 


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and leave kudos :)

In the heart of Cambridge, there is a bookshop.

It is not a large bookshop: it’s small, but filled with books of every kind, on the shelves, on the floor, even on the tables. There’s coffee and cake, and you can see down the whole street from the window that overlooks it.

It’s always full, nowadays. It used to be quiet, but the current occupants are well-known, particularly around these parts. One is a best-selling author of crime thrillers, the other a consulting detective with an international reputation who acts as inspiration for said crime thrillers.

They are the darlings of Cambridge, and this is where they stay.

The shop is still called _Hudsons_ : the walls inside are still blue. They sell the same kind of coffee, and they sell the same kind of cake. But now a different teenager sits behind the counter, reading Hemingway and ignoring the customers: different regulars come in weekly, trying to find that one novel that will allow them to escape for seven days. There are now two children who run around, a blonde girl and her dark younger brother, stealing cake and running upstairs to share with their fathers.

Above the till, there is a picture of a blond haired man, younger than he is now and smiling in a tuxedo in front of a wedding arbour, leaning against a taller, dark boy, who has captured the light of the day in his eyes. Next to it, in the sloping handwriting of a genius, it is written:

**_DO NOT SERVE LIST_ **

**_John H. Watson – owes ninety nine pence_ **

And then, underneath, a fifty pence coin, two twenties, a five and two twos, sellotaped with care.


End file.
